


It's The Little Things

by zjofierose



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:59:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3151547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five (+ one) things that Tauriel and Kíli come to learn about each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pickles

**Author's Note:**

> This is a BotFA denial fic! Not even really a fix-it, just a "wow, let's pretend that never happened" fic. Also, there is no plot to speak of. Just a little collection of tooth-rotting vignettes.

“What have you there, dwarf?”

Tauriel's tone is formal, but the smile twitching at the corners of her mouth is not, and Kili beams at her as she settles onto the wooden bench across from him. Her armor is off, abandoned in deference to the sunny heat of the day, her green tunic belted at the waist. Her knives are, as always, close at hand, but she's left her bow and quiver behind.

He finishes chewing and swallows before grinning widely and stabbing one of the long, green pieces with his belt knife. He holds it out for her inspection.

“Pickle!” he declares, and she chuckles at his enthusiasm, but twitches a wary brow at the proffered item. “Have you never had one?”

“No,” she shakes her head, leaning in to give the offending vegetable a long sniff, wrinkling her delicate nose. “Its scent is very strong. Is this a dwarven food?”

“Nope!” He brings it back and pops the end into his mouth, crunching happily. He'd been gravely wounded in the battle a month ago and had spent quite a while recuperating, and thus had been fussed over and denied things like strong foods for far too long. He's making up for lost time, and this feast day at Dale is helping in no small measure. “They're a specialty of men, but I've always liked them. They come in many different flavors, some spicy, some sweet, some hot that will burn your tongue...” He pauses to bring his knife back in from where he's been gesturing with it to take another bite and sigh with contentment.

Tauriel's making the face that tells him she's laughing at him silently. It's a very particular twist of eyebrow and perfectly lifted mouth corner; it must be a gift of the elves, because he's seen Legolas make exactly the same expression on numerous occasions. On Legolas, it's amusing, but on Tauriel, well, it's devastatingly charming, there's no way around it.

“Here.” He stabs a smaller spear and holds it out to her on the point of his knife. Seated like this, he doesn't need to lift his eyes so far to meet hers, and he refuses to look away as she leans slowly in and bites it off the tip of his blade. He bangs his knee on the underside of the table in an effort not to choke as she slowly and carefully licks her lips, crunching thoughtfully. “Well?”

She flicks her eyes back at him, and pulls the most hideous face he's ever seen an elf make before seizing his tankard of ale and downing it while he roars with laughter and pounds the table with his fist.

“By all the gods, that is  _foul_ ! You truly enjoy those?” Her face is a picture of abject horror, and he drops his forehead to his plate as he whimpers with laughter, reaching up a hand to shove the pitcher of ale nearer to her elbow.

It takes him several minutes to largely recover himself, and by the time he does, she's regained her composure, blotting her mouth daintily with a napkin, though she pours herself a second tankard rather quickly and sips it with enthusiasm, cutting her eyes at him all the while.

Later, when he kisses her long and slow under the trees at dusk, her mouth will still taste like garlic.

 

 


	2. The River at Dusk

Legolas, Tauriel, and the remaining honor guard of Thranduil's forces have decided to camp near Dale while Erebor is being restored to at least a semblance of habitableness, if not yet its former glory. They claim to prefer the outdoors, for which Kili can't blame them at this point, given the constant noise and dust of the cleaning and repairs that are continuing around the clock deep inside the mountain.

In fact, he finds himself more often than not wandering to the outside world, slipping out in the fading darkness of twilight, or striding forth to greet the rosy-fingered dawn. He's never lived inside the Lonely Mountain- born after Smaug's triumph, and raised in Ered Luin, he's never felt settled in the way of the older dwarves, never felt as though he belonged deep in one particular mountain for the entirety of his lifetime. He loves the mountains, just like any other dwarf- their immovable solidity, their dark strength, their hidden treasures. But being on the road with the company, sleeping out where the breezes whisper in the darkness, where he could hear the twitter of birds at daybreak and the rustling of night creatures... it took some getting used to, but he found after a time that it suited him, that now, with his well-hewn quarters near his brother and his uncle, he still finds himself heading for the gates, for the open sky.

He'd seen her, for the brief while they were in Laketown, watched her nightly habits. Every evening she would clean and inspect her weapons, make any needed repairs, repack them. The same with her garb and gear; a brief assessment, followed by any necessary cleaning and maintenance, then done. However, they had not remained there long, and any further observation of the captain's habits were rudely curtailed by the subsequent battle.

Here, though. He's run into her enough times now walking down by the river that he's begun to determine a pattern. Here, an hour after dark, on the sixth day, Tauriel descends to the river.

The first time he'd seen her was truly an accident; he'd been coming to the river for the same reasons himself, having grown tired of the crowded bathing pools in the mountain. The night was brisk, and the water was no doubt going to be frigid, but it would be worth it for the five minutes of peace and quiet.

He'd heard the splashing as he rounded the bend in the river at the base of the city's walls, and stopped short on the rocky bank as he caught sight of her. He'd stood gaping like an idiot for a long moment; her modesty was preserved by the dark lengths of her unbound hair, but the light of the moon where it struck her skin turned to liquid silver, pure and radiant as anything he'd ever laid eyes on in his short life.

It had taken a minute, but he had recovered himself, and left as silently as he came, not wanting to intrude.

He'd come to the river an hour earlier the next day and lingered, hoping to encounter her, but had had no luck. They're all so busy every hour of every day right now that he hasn't had five minutes with her that haven't had another dozen people within arm's reach, so he tried again the next day and the next. The fourth day Thorin had kept him inside until midnight, and he was sure he'd missed her, and the fifth day he'd fallen onto his cot too exhausted to even try, but the sixth day he guessed closer, and encountered her on her return as he heads down to make his own ablutions. They made brief small talk, and she pressed her still-damp forehead to his as she left, scent of lingering herbs in his nose as she went, but there was still no time for either of them to share. The next week happened much the same, but tonight! Tonight, he gets it right.

He makes deliberate noise as he approaches, and her head turns unerringly to find him, dark eyes huge in the deepening night. She is fully clothed and seated on a rock, a wooden comb in one hand and the dark wet mass of her hair in the other.

“Well met, my lady.” He pauses several feet away and bows, raising his head to smile when she scoffs quietly.

“My lord, Prince of Erebor.” It's his turn to roll his eyes, and she laughs softly as he approaches before turning back to the task at hand and attacking the knot in her hand viciously. It makes him wince to see the way she pulls, frustration clearly mounting as she yanks at the stubborn tangle.

“My lady, may I?” He holds out his hands in supplication, and she regards him warily before grudgingly handing over the comb. He gathers her hair carefully in his other hand, and lets it fall free across her back, the drag of it making her shudder. He kneels down at the base of her rock and starts at the bottom, methodically working his way upward, freeing the strands from one another and carefully straightening bit by bit, his fingers reverent and slow.

“Your hair is as magnificent as you are.” It's more than he means to say, but it's also out of his mouth before he can help it. He spends a moment being grateful both that it is dark, and that her back is to him, because he doesn't have to school his face.

Fortunately, she only laughs. “It is a magnificent pain in my magnificent arse, that's what it is.” She sighs in relief as he works the largest knot loose, freeing the whole left side of her head. “Your fingers are magical. How did you learn this?”

He shrugs, before remembering she can't see. “We all wear our hair long from infancy, just as you do. You've seen Bombur.” She snorts gently at the mention of the rotund dwarf and his lengthy beard. “Fili and I practiced braids on each other as striplings, and when we were very good, our mother would let us braid and decorate her hair.” He smiles in the dark, remembering. “It's a mark of affection, for us. Family often braid each others' hair or beards.”

“We do our own.” Her voice is quiet, distant. He runs the comb from the top of her scalp to the ends at her waist, enjoying the soft drag of it through her increasingly detangled glory. It's completely different to his; fine like spidersilk and just as clingy, soft and slippery where his is thick and coarse and free. “We learn as small children, and are expected to maintain the appropriate styles on our own from then on.”

He parts her hair into five damp strands, gripping them firmly between his fingers as he begins the simple weave.

“If it bothers you so, why do you not simply cut it off?”

“I did once.” Her tone is wry, and he barks out a laugh at the image of it, a young Tauriel with a sharp red bob, short ends flying as she looses arrows. “I loved it. I was a hundred years old, and I'd never felt so free.” He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head as he keeps the tension taut in the strands between his fingers, weaving methodically. He hasn't done this for anyone but Fili in years, and the process of it is both strange and incredibly soothing.

“Why not do it again?”

She sighs, unconsciously straightening her spine, shifting her weight on the rock.

“It would not be fitting for my station.”

“As Captain of the Guard?”

“Yes.” He holds the end of the braid in his hand and fishes in his pocket with the other until he finds the length of leather cording. “It is considered part of the uniform, and so I acquiesce.” He ties it off tightly and lets the braid fall heavy against her back. The finished product is satisfying, a tight weave in a simple pattern, unlikely to catch on anything, and easily tucked away in cloak or armor.

“You take your role very seriously.” It's not a question. It's one of the things he admires most about her, in fact, this brilliant creature in front of him.

“Yes.” She reaches a hand back to feel the length of it, long fingers tracing the shapes. “I do.”

He steps back and lets her feel of it, holding the comb out for her to take.

“Kili, this is very well done. Thank you.” She eyes him speculatively. “You know... perhaps I could learn to mind its length and bother less. If I had assistance, for example.” She smiles at him, innocence personified. As if he could resist any request she made of him.

She takes the comb from his fingers, the briefest touch of fingertip to fingertip as their hands meet. He bows.

“My lady, I am ever at your service.”

The moon catches the brightness of her smile.

 


	3. Beards, or the Lack Thereof

She rubs her face against his cheek and hums thoughtfully at the rasp of his stubble on her smooth skin.

“Is it a mark of your youth, that your beard is so short?”

He chuckles, the movement of it making her bounce gently where she rests her back against his broad chest. He shifts slightly to ease the dig of the rock he's leaning against, and tips his head forward to drag his chin down the side of her neck.

“Oh, aye. I'm but a green lad, and you are a wicked and elderly elf, corrupting me away from an upright boyhood.” He snickers and squirms as she drives a pointy elbow into his sternum. “Did you know you were cradle-robbing when you first laid your hands upon me?”

“ _Pe-channas_ ” she grumbles, pinching him sharply on the thigh before letting him wrap his arms around her and hold her fast against him. “Tell me true. The others tease you about it enough, I want to know.”

“Mm.” He nods solemnly and laces their fingers together. “Well, you see, when I was but a wee dwarrow, and Fíli first began to grow his whiskers, well. I was powerfully jealous.” He feels her settle in his arms, a warm and perfect weight against him, and smiles. “He's only five years my senior, hardly anything, but at that age, it seemed insurmountable.” He lets himself frown. “And it came in so  _fast_ ! You would not believe it, but from one night to the next morning, suddenly-” he frees a hand to trace the shape on her upper lip, “a mustache, fully sprouted!” She snickers, and he waves his hand freely. “ _So_ inconsiderate! And by the next full moon, he could braid it!”

He brings his hand back down to wrap around her again, and brings his mouth close to her ear.

“I was beside myself with envy, so late one night when he removed his beard and mustache for bed...”

“You know that I can tell when you're lying to me, yes?”

“Would I lie to you?” He widens his eyes in indignation, suppressing his smile as her eyes crinkle with mirth.

“ _Yes_ . Repeatedly, and at length.”

“ _Hmph_ .” He shuffles her weight against him. “Well. Never mind. I suppose you weren't really interested, anyway.” He leans his head back against the rock again. “Look, is that an eagle off in the distance?”

“Kíli...” She has, he thinks, been spending too much time with his brother, if she has learned to say his name with quite that inflection of exasperation.

“Yes?”

She sighs gustily in faux irritation, and rolls her hazel eyes, letting her head drop to rest in the curve of his neck. He rubs his cheek across her forehead to make her wriggle against him.

“...Fíli had removed his beard and mustache for bed...” she prompts.

“Yes.” He nods. “Just as we all do, for safe-keeping, you know.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And, in the middle of the night, I got up and stole them! Stuck them on my own face, let them settle in.” He chuckles in spite of himself, and can feel her silent laughter against him. “I was a sight in the morning, let me tell you.” He reaches a hand up to stroke his chin thoughtfully. “Blond has never been my color.” She laughs outright, and smacks him on the leg. “Anyway, Fíli woke up, of course, and found me, and chased me down, all over Ered Luin, high and low.”

A bird breaks cover in front of them, cawing wildly as it takes to the air.

“He did finally catch me.” Kíli shakes his head ruefully. “Problem was, he caught me right as we tripped into Gandalf, and knocked him down.” Tauriel is snickering quietly, so he carries on, tone rich with hurt and outrage. “And can you believe it, he cursed me! And all for stealing my brother's beard.” He sighs mournfully. “I shall always be a lad among men, bare-cheeked and ashamed, destined to only be lovable to an elfin princess, whose people all wander around looking like children anyway.  _Oof_ !”

She shakes her head and removes her elbow from his gut.

“Kíli. Why don't you have a beard?”

“Because orcs snatched...”

“Kíli....”

He pouts. “You don't want to hear about how I lost it in a bet to Beorn?”

“ _Kíli_ .” Her tone is stern, but her eyes are laughing, so he sighs heavily and gives in.

“Of course I can grow one. I'm young, yes, but I'm fully an adult, and have been for some little while.” He settles his nose back behind her ear and breathes in slowly, letting his eyes shut in bliss. “I don't really know how your ages compare to ours, but in the years of men, I'm roughly... twenty years or so?” He shrugs. “A young adult, surely, but not a youth.”

“So why do you not?”

He presses his lips to the soft bare skin of one pointed ear, and letting his cheek slide down to her hairline, eliciting a pleasing shiver, then shrugs again.

“Gets in the way of the bowstring.”

 


	4. Q&A

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this didn't quite go where I thought it was going, but I'm just going to quit futzing with it and move on. :P

Theirs becomes suddenly a nearly textbook courtship, which amuses her to no end- their beginning may have been the definition of “inauspicious”, but apparently when given the time and circumstances they're inclined to a rather proper affair. They make no announcement, but neither do they feel the need to be particularly subtle: If her abandoning her post to chase him down and save him, and then confronting her king about the nature of love wasn't declaration enough, his public gift of his mother's runestone in front of her prince and all his kin should have made it clear to any doubters in the ranks.

They're both busy, of course, dawn to dusk, which brings its challenges. Kíli has taken charge of the rebuilding effort externally while Fíli and Thorin lead the internal reconstruction, and he has also been made the unofficial ambassador to Dale, as he and Bard became old friends in a matter of days. For her part, Tauriel has been left in charge of a regiment of elves; those who volunteered to stay out of loyalty to her, or curiosity about life beyond the edge of the forest, or some combination of both. She had been shocked at Thranduil's acquiescence when she heard, though less so when she found out that he had volunteered them to clean up the mess of the battle; it's both permission to carry on, and punishment for her disobedience. She accepts it gratefully. Legolas has also stayed, for reasons known only to himself, but she's endlessly happy for his steady presence and reliable grumbling as they go about the filthy, disgusting, and heartbreaking work of burning orc corpses, handing over the fallen dwarves to Dori and Ori for burial, and dealing with their own dead.

Kíli comes to her in the evenings, exhausted but usually smiling, and often with a small token; a flower he's found on the trip to their camp from the mountain, or a bead for her hair which he will patiently weave in with his clever fingers. He takes her hand and they walk out into the dusk, telling stories or simply being silent together as the first stars of evening flicker into light.

For all that these weeks after the battle have been hectic and fraught, Tauriel treasures the small amount of space that is suddenly present for them. They'd met in a whirlwind of danger and despair, and it's only now that they have the time to meet as normal lovers do. Their connection had been immediate and undeniable, but knowing that you love somebody does not mean that you know what makes them laugh, or whether they can sing; what weather they prefer, or the taste of their mouth.

(Nearly everything, and yes, quite well. Sunny and warm, with a good breeze; like iron and dark ale, like laughter and a promise.)

The interest of discovery is furthered by the desire to suss out whether their individual traits and quirks are a mark of their personalities, or of their races- Tauriel had never met dwarves before she met Thorin's company, though she certainly knew about them from stories and records. Kíli, on the other hand, had seen elves in public spaces previously, and had even gone to Rivendell before journeying through Mirkwood, but had far less theoretical knowledge of her race than she had of his.

Thus, as the three races settle into a routine in the weeks after Smaug is ousted and the orcs have been slain, Kíli and Tauriel throw themselves into an unspoken mutual determination to learn everything there is to know about each other. (Tauriel, to her delight, is greatly aided by Fíli, who patiently answers her questions either with explanations of dwarf lore and custom, or an amused shake of the head and a “ _No, that's just K_ _íli_ _..._ ”. Kíli has no such luck with Legolas.)

Thus far this week, Tauriel has learned that yes, Kíli _is_ rather tall for a dwarf; that he learned to shoot a bow from Thorin, but proved far more proficient at it than most dwarves at least in part because he is somewhat long-sighted, an unusual quality; that it is entirely normal for dwarves to drink themselves into a stupor on a very regular basis, and that they seem to suffer no ill effects as a result; and that his penchant for the food of men, the stronger-tasting the better, is entirely his own. The expression on Fíli's face when she'd asked him about Sigrid's and Kíli's plans to make pickled cabbage come fall had been truly priceless.

In return, she has disclosed that while red hair is not common among elves, it's not exceptionally rare, either; that _those berries are poisonous,_ _K_ _íli_ _,_ _put them down_ ; that yes, all elves learn basic plant-lore and first-aid skills, because they are useful things to know, and elves have the time to learn them, so why wouldn't you; that, as graceful and charming as Kíli may think she is, she's considered to be somewhat uncouth by her own people; that Legolas has a secret penchant for jam; and that her favorite color is neither the green nor brown of her woodland home, but the deep, deep blue of the sea she has never seen.


	5. Brothers and Sisters

“The Prince is like a brother to you.”

Tauriel raises a careful eyebrow at the non sequiter, but swallows her spoonful spoonful of porridge and nods.

“Legolas has known me almost all of my life.”

“Did you grow up together?”

She smiles and shakes her head, lifting another spoonful. “No. He is quite a bit older than I, for all that we are both considered young.”

Kíli frowns thoughtfully, dark hair sticking up at the crown of his head. She reaches a hand over to smooth it down and he smiles, closing his eyes as her fingers push through his hair.

“Do you have no brothers or sisters, then?”

“No.” Her smile is wistful, and she buries it in the mouth of her mug. “It is not uncommon among elves to be an only child. We do not reproduce often as it is, because we live so long, and so many couples feel complete with one infant.”

He watches her for a long moment, then takes a considering glance at Fíli across the room.

“Were you not lonely?”

She thinks it over, unhurried by his curious gaze on her.

“I suppose I was, though I don't think I knew it at the time. There were no other children of my age in our group.” She takes a long drink of her tea, tired eyelids drifting closed in pleasure then open again. “I did not think to wish I had had siblings until I met you, but what is between you and Fíli... for all that Legolas is my boon companion, it is a different bond that we share.” She smiles. “I do envy it.”

Kíli nods thoughtfully, watching his brother play with the bargeman's children. “I've never known life without him, and though he says he remembers when I was a babe in arms, I don't think he truly remembers what it was like before I came. He was only a wee lad of five, after all.” He shakes his head and smiles. “Men have many children too, or most of them do, as far as I've ever seen.” He tips his head at the laughing group. “Sigrid surely remembers life without Tilda, but perhaps not without Bain.”

Tauriel nods and sips from her tea. “There is no sense wishing to change one's past. I do not share those bonds, nor do most of my people. But...” she smiles as Fíli turns and tips an inquiring eyebrow at his brother, no doubt feeling the weight of his gaze. Kíli shakes his head, and Fíli turns back to his game. “...but I am glad for you that you have had each other.”

Kíli reaches across the table to lay his warm hand on hers. “You have him too, you know. And the bargeman's children, as well.” His face is open, earnest, and she folds her fingers into his, letting his presence warm her through. “Maybe not as a sister, but certainly as a favored aunt.”

“Yes.” She tightens her fingers on his. “I am unused to so much family. But I think I shall learn to love it greatly.” She sighs heavily. “And someday, you shall have Legolas, too.”

Kíli snorts unattractively, and she thumps his forearm with her free hand.

“You will! He just... comes around slowly.”

“Slow like a glacier melts in the spring. Slow like a cave troll counting. Slow like a...”

“Yes, yes.” She covers his mouth with her long fingers, but her eyes are crinkled with amusement. “Your point is made.” He licks her palm and she pulls her hand back and wipes it on his tunic, making a face.

“It was more than just the two of you, though, no?”

“Hm, yes.” He stabs another sausage from the bowl on the table with the point of his knife and bites off the end. “It was the two of us, always, but we had plenty of cousins. Most dwarrow children are male, so there's always a surplus of young striplings getting into trouble.” She's making her laughing face again, clearly picturing it. “But it was different, as we got older. We moved around more than the other families, since we didn't have a proper clan and home, and also, I think Thorin was trying to find more allies, drum up more support.” He shrugs and chews on his sausage for a moment before swallowing. “At some point the others learned that Fíli and I were noble-born, and even if we were all too young to really understand what that meant, and even if our mountain was so far away as to seem a myth only, the elders still behaved as if it mattered, and that set us a bit apart.” He pops the last bite of sausage into his mouth and wipes his knife blade on his leggings before sheathing it at his belt. “Perhaps if our father had not died when we were so young it might have been different, but with Thorin, the outcast heir, standing as our surrogate, well... I suppose there was nothing for it.”

Tauriel nods. “My parents died when I was very young.” He reaches out and takes his hands in hers. He'd assumed as much, from things said here and there, but she's never said it outright like this. She smiles gently at him. “It was a long time ago. But we were a low-born family; I am a Silvan elf, one of the common tribes among our kindred. And yet, Thranduil took me in, and...” She pauses, considering. “He did not quite raise me as one of his own; he had a son already grown, and no partner- he would have been ill-prepared to raise a young child by himself whilst ruling as King. But he saw that I was well-cared for, and he has always looked out for me, and favored me far above what my class and age would say I deserve.” She drops her head, and he feels a wash of sympathy for her, having left half of what family she had behind in the woodlands. He is so grateful that she is here, with him, and he raises her hands to his mouth, closing his eyes and kissing her knuckles one by one as he brings to mind all that she has defied, all that she has thrown herself into, in no small part for love of him.

“Here, what's this?” She frees her hands and curls one of them around his face, letting him turn his cheek into her cool palm. “I am not lonely now.” She smiles at him, her expression amused and content.

“Nor shall you ever be,” he whispers fiercely, turning his face to press his mouth quickly to the base of her fingers, before catching and holding her eyes with his. “Nor shall you ever be again.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr!](http://zjofierose.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

By the end of the following summer, nine long months after the battle, Erebor is fully habitable again. There are still repairs to be made to the deeper tunnels, and restoration to be done on edifices and memorials, decorations to be woven and carved and set in place; but, on the whole, it has turned into a rather splendid city once again. Thorin, now crowned, attends meetings daily in his council chambers, holds court in the throne room once a week, and they all come to dinner nightly in the great hall. The kitchens are bustling, the forges are roaring, and though the final stages of rebuilding shall last for years to come, things are starting to feel settled.

Dale is likewise prospering; trade began to pick up just as soon as the spring thaw hit, and with the first waves of late summer crops coming in, the whole world around the lonely mountain is looking rosy. Bard rules at popular behest as the Lord of Dale, aided by the lovely and extremely capable Sigrid, who will be sixteen in a month's time, and carries the title Lady of Dale with an uplifted head. Laketown itself has also been rebuilding, though more slowly, as much of the population had packed it in and moved to the city at the foot of the mountain instead. Still, the fishing is good, the trade route leads right to their door, and the ferries and barges across the lake are doing a brisk business while the weather holds.

Most of the elves who had initially stayed have since returned to Mirkwood, having remained long enough to ensure the survival of the various populations through the winter and early spring, though a small ambassadorial delegation remains on the outskirts of the city. They have been invaluable allies, guaranteeing a flow of food and other necessities, and taking it upon themselves to train up a wave of healers among the Men before they returned to their green shadows. Relations between Thranduil and Thorin themselves are still best described as “chilly”, but they seem to be the exception, rather than the rule.

Tauriel herself unceremoniously moved into Kíli's chambers just after the elven Feast of the Summer Stars, showing up one evening with her possessions under one arm and a questioning look upon her face. Kíli'd emptied half his chest of drawers so fast he'd cut his shin on the corner of one of the lower drawers, and had to limp off with flaming face to get three stitches from an unsympathetic Oin.

It's blissful, having her always near- no more nights alone and apart, no more stealing away to find each other, no more quiet moments interrupted by a night patrol or roaming wildlife. It's better than he'd ever guessed, and he wouldn't trade it for anything, and yet...

It's not quite how he expected.

For one thing, Tauriel is a morning person; or, at least, she has learned to be one through hundreds of years of military training. He's not at all sure that she actually _likes_ the early morning, given her terseness in the wee hours, but nonetheless, she possesses an impeccable internal clock that has her rising just before the first light of dawn, even when sleeping beneath several hundred tons of stone.

Kíli himself is a night owl, as are most of his kin- he rises begrudgingly when his brother or uncle comes to bang on his door and summon him to council, breaks his fast many hours after dawn, then works all day and spends the evening hours making music, telling stories, and drinking until the early hours of the morning. (Tauriel tried to stay up with them at first, but after the third time she fell asleep into her plate, she gave it up as a bad job.)

Also, Kíli, like other dwarves, runs hot. He is usually warm, often overly so, and though he doesn't _mind_ being warm, he also doesn't need much by way of blanket or shirt or other covering when he sleeps. It can be the dead of winter, and he's fine in a loose nightshirt and a light sheet, even without the clever forced air heating system that runs hot air from the forges throughout the myriad of rooms in the mountain.

Tauriel, though she claims not to be bothered by heat or cold, and indeed does not show physical signs like goosebumps or perspiration, seems to always want to be warmer.

At first, Kíli had found this adorable, and very much to his own benefit, as it meant that she demonstrated a decided preference for having every long and lovely inch of herself plastered to his heated skin. However, after a few prolonged encounters with her thrice-cursed bloodless and freezing feet, he's feeling less sure about the merits of this particular quirk. Not to mention that she favors sleeping with several blankets pulled up to her nose, her body pressed like a limpet to his side, which invariably results with him waking in the middle of the night panting like he's run miles and drenched in sweat in order to peel himself out of an overheated cocoon.

Furthermore, they're neither one of them used to sleeping with another in their bed.

It only took a couple of weeks for them both to get past the fight or flight responses to encountering one another in the night; neither of them actually injured the other, though knives were drawn several times. But all of that seems to be well behind them, thank Mahal. Now they are simply left with Tauriel, who sleeps perfectly neatly and still, but right. in. the middle. of. the bed. and Kíli, who sleeps like he fights; actively, and with a wide range. He's woken up many a night clinging to the edge of the mattress, having been elbowed over repeatedly so that his lovely elf can sate her unconscious need to sleep an equal distance from each side. He's also woken up many a morning to Tauriel shaking her head at him as she tries to haul a sheet out from under his starfished limbs, body sprawled diagonally across the length of the bed.

It's just...not what he'd imagined, that's all. He'd thought of late nights stumbling into bed together, lazy mornings bare-skinned beneath the morning sun. He'd thought of holding her close to him, waking curled together and peaceful, each responding to the others' gentle touch, sharing a bed like they were born for it.

He shuts the door and shucks his clothes, setting his boots by the wall and hanging his trousers on the hook. He glances toward the lump in the middle of the bed, and, making a face, pulls off his shirt, too, tying his hair back as he pads on bare feet toward the bed. She's left a candle burning so he could find his way, and he eases the covers back from her clutching fingers so that he can stroke his hand down the soft curve of her cheek. She smiles in her sleep at his touch, and he crawls under the blankets, pushing her over until he can get both legs on the bed, then pulling her into his arms where she makes a pleased and sleepy sound as she shoves her icy toes into the back of his knees. He shudders, and kisses the top of her head.

It will only be a couple of hours until he wakes on the edge of heatstroke, and then another hour before she climbs over him in the dark to dress and gather her weapons for her dawn training regimen. He closes his eyes and slides his fingers into hers.

He never dreamed it could be this good.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read and commented on this! I just wrote it on a whim, and it's been so nice getting such a lovely response. :) I think I'll definitely be writing more of this pairing, but it might be a little bit, as I've a few other deadlines looming in the next few weeks, but we'll see. 
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr!](http://zjofierose.tumblr.com/)
> 
> <3


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